


A God Who Sings Back

by rjk122



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Coffee Shops, Friends to Lovers, Hanging Out, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Music, Poet Otabek, Poetry, Punk Yuri, ill add tags as i go, music snob yuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-02 06:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10211114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjk122/pseuds/rjk122
Summary: Chicago in 1978 was where Yuri Plisetsky felt alive. A day in the life looked like pissing off his grandfather by endlessly blasting Sex Pistols, getting dragged out of underground punk shows only to get the absolute shit kicked out of him for picking fights with guys twice his size, and winding up in run down coffee shops hosting mediocre beat poets at 2am.One night, with an icepack to his cheek and black coffee in his hand, a man steps out on stage. His poetry is spoken like silk is spun, effortlessly, beautifully. His syntax blends with the soft tones of his voice and creates something so astounding that even the locally detested Soviet Punk’s hard outer shell melts away. He falls in love with the words, and grows desperate to know the speaker.(rating subject to change)(ON HIATUS)





	1. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know what I was waiting for  
> And my time was running wild.  
> A million dead-end streets,  
> And every time I thought I'd got it made.  
> It seemed the taste was not so sweet.

Wiping the blood onto the stiff leather of his sleeve, Yuri Plisetsky stomped in the opposite direction of the assholes who did the damage. He lit a cigarette as he went, subtly blowing smoke in the faces of anyone passing by. It’s not like many did; it was nearly two in the morning, and most people had better things to do, better places to be, better shows to be at. Yuri didn’t. Infamous around the area, no local wanted to invite the Soviet Punk to any gathering, any party, so he spent his nights sneaking into punk shows, the only place he felt free. Until he was recognized, of course. Chicago’s a big city, but the punk scene knew him all too well, and people definitely didn’t take too well to a potential commie.

 

Summer of 1978. Yuri hated summer--his torn up T-shirts clung to his lanky body, the black pants and leather made it all too difficult to not get sweaty. He longed for the mild weather of London, the scene was better there anyway. Maybe out in London he wouldn’t get his ass kicked just for being born in a certain country.

 

Turning the corner, he found his Hail Mary: a 24 hour cafe that he sauntered off to every time he got booted from Gaspar’s, his favorite venue for shows. The only downside was that from 10pm to 3am, it was an open mic for poets, and most had some of the cringiest content he’d ever had the misfortune of hearing.

 

That night, a tall goth kid, a regular named Georgi, took the mic. Yuri could hardly stop to even roll his eyes anymore, he just tuned out the droning love poetry and ordered his coffee. The nighttime barista was always the same, another Soviet man, silver-haired. He always tries to make small talk, but Yuri was either too tired, too pissed off, or both to do much more than just accept the coffee and the spare towel to soak up the blood dripping from his nose. He nodded a silent “thank you” and made his way to his usual corner table as a fresh face took the center stage.

 

This man was completely new. Usually the regulars who come through at this time of night, whether doing so out of insomnia or drugs, were the poor bastards who came at least twice a week. This one was unfamiliar; not too tall but still taller than Yuri, Presley-like hair that was gelled to perfection. He wore mustard bellbottoms and a fitted black turtleneck to contrast. Yuri looked down at his own torn up jeans, his shirt that was safety-pinned together like Richard Hell, his hair coated with grease and crusted brown blood. He curled up his lip at the dapper motherfucker, refusing to feel inferior to some kind of wannabe beatnik bastard.

 

As the man prepared to speak, Yuri prepared to jeer.

 

“My grandmother’s pastor says that it is unholy to move to certain rhythms,” he began, actually catching Yuri’s interest and halting his heckling,

 

“He has all but banned music in their church.

Music has gotten me through times of pain, but to hear a man

of God tell me that my source comfort is unholy

is not new to me.

Boys’ hips catch my eye as they move to the beat,

Rhythm in every aspect of my love

His God, is the one that screams at me when I sing holy praises,

damns me for the places I place my faith.

A man's lips are as close as to an angel’s touch as I will ever get.

A nonbinary lullaby, ushering me to the gates of heaven,

In times of need, I sing out,

and My god sings back,

Opens his mouth and calls me at home at last,

while his God sits faced away, silent.

My god does not call me a sin for the ways I worship,

Whispers encouragement into my breastbone as I put on the day’s face,

while his God whispers dead names in my ear.

My god, calls me child, does not care if I am daughter or son,

Embraces my love as his own, holds me while I listen to endless playlists on long nights,

while his God casts me out and breaks every speaker in the house.

 

When my grandmother’s pastor says that it is unholy to move to certain rhythms,

I smirk.

Because music has been in unity with faith for as long as people can remember

And My god always sings back when I sing out my hymns.”

 

Yuri’s trance did not end when the poetry did.

 

Something about the way that man spoke, voice like silver glinting on a clear-skied day. It stood out--you didn’t choose to listen, it made you take notice. It was impossibly relatable to Yuri’s own situation, and it drew him in. He was a moth and this mystery stranger’s captivating verse was the light he had been seeking this whole time.

 

The allure of the moment was fleeting though, and faded as the man stepped away from the spotlight. Yuri refused to let this moment wither.

 

“Hey, you!” he called out. The man turned his head and shuffled over once he realized he was the one being spoken to.

 

“Can I sit here?” he asked simply.

 

Yuri nodded. “What’s your name?”

 

“Otabek.”

 

“I’m Plisetsky. Yuri.” He held out his hand across the small table for Otabek to shake.

 

“You should probably get a bandage for your head, Yuri,” was all he replied with.

 

“Yeah, I probably should do a lot of shit,” he scoffed, which left Otabek quiet.

 

Fuck. Yuri had always had a difficult time making friends with people, and being a sarcastic dick to them within the first thirty seconds of speaking didn’t exactly help. “So, uh, that poem. What was it about?”

 

Otabek looked up from his lap. “It’s about sexuality and religion.”

 

“Tell me more.”

 

Usually Plisetsky’s demanding manner was what led people to talk _less_ , but not this time. “My family, they disapprove of my sexuality,” Otabek began. “They send me to church every week to be “fixed,” but there isn’t any fixing for what isn’t broken. My worship comes in a different way.”

 

“What’s your worship?”

 

“My own comfort.”

 

Yuri blinked. Something was drawing him relentlessly towards Otabek, his gut demanding he know more and more about this person sitting across from him. There had never been a feeling like that present before, as his intuition usually told him the opposite.

 

“What’s your sexuality?”

 

“I’m gay”

 

Yuri smirked. “Rad.”

 

The two let the knowing silence hang between them for quite a bit before Yuri decided he’d head home. He never liked to keep his grandfather waiting up for him past three, so he only stayed long enough to have his coffee. Before parting ways though, he scribbled his phone number on a napkin and slid it to Otabek. “Call me tomorrow.”

 

Otabek looked up at him, almost bewildered under his facade of stoicism. “Sure.”

 

Yuri stood up, adjusting his jacket. “Check ya later.” Otabek nodded.

 

Yuri figured he’d treat himself to a cab ride home, catching one before taking the short drive back to his grandfather’s apartment. Stumbling up the stairs and into the cramped living room, he found that his grandpa must have nodded off while sitting up waiting for him. He sat, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed even in sleep. Yuri made a point to nearly slam the door to awake him.

 

“Yurochka,” his grandfather said sternly. He didn’t need to say much more--Yuri knew what was being implied. He was disappointed, he was worried sick, just like every other night.

 

“I always come home in one piece,” he insisted. “Stop worrying so much.”

 

Nikolai stood up, shuffling in the kitchen for the first aid kit. “Sit,” he ordered, and so Yuri did.

 

It was nearly routine by then. Yuri came home at some ungodly hour, and his grandfather was up to disinfect and bandage whatever battle wounds had appeared in that evening. Today was a bloody nose and a split forehead, which was a simple fix. Wipe up the blood, stick a bandaid on his head, send him off.

 

“Yurochka, please be more careful. I’m tired of this,” Nikolai sighed.

 

“I’ll try.” He won’t. “Goodnight.”

 

“Spokushni,” he murmured in his native tongue. Yuri’s grandfather didn’t often speak the language, but usually simple phrases around the home was what had become second nature.

  
Yuri headed off to his room, stripping himself down to just underwear and collapsing into bed. His head rang heavy with the words that had spilled from Otabek’s lips on that stage, and he struggled to fall asleep due to the anticipation of the following day’s phone call.


	2. You've Got A Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You just call out my name, and you know where ever I am  
> I'll come running to see you again.  
> Winter, spring, summer, or fall, all you have to do is call and I'll be there.  
> You've got a friend.

It was noon before Yuri rolled out of bed that next day. His grandfather had left breakfast for him that morning before he had gone off to work, and it was cold by then. Yuri didn’t even mind, he just reheated it in the new microwave they had bought the previous week. Who thinks of this stuff? It was like a miracle for all of the breakfasts Yuri had spent sleeping through.

 

He pulled his matted hair into a lazy ponytail, intending to shower after he scarfed down the food that was warm once again. His plans were offset by the phone ringing yet again. He had woken up several times to the sound throughout the morning, but didn’t care enough to get up and answer it. This time he did though, abandoning his empty plate at the table.

 

“Plisetsky residence,” he answered plainly, coming off just a bit too bitter.

 

“Is there a Yuri there?”

 

“Speaking.”

 

“Oh! It’s Otabek. From last night.”

 

His tone relaxed. “What’s happenin’?”

 

“You told me to call. I tried a bit earlier but there was no answer.”

 

“I only just got up,” Yuri admitted with a shrug. “Do you want to hang today?”

 

“Sure,” Otabek agreed. “Where do you want to go?”

 

“We could catch a movie, or you come come to my place and chill here. I could show you some rad as fuck records.” Yuri only really knew what kind of things to do around the area at night, it had been ages since he went out during the day.

 

“What kind of music do you like?”

 

“Rock. The Clash, Sex Pistols, Ramones, Talking Heads, that kinda shit.”

 

He paused. “Well, I’m open to new genres.”

 

Yuri could tell he was judging just a little bit. “What do you listen to?”

 

“I’m a more folky person. That artsy kind of music. Cat Stevens, Fleetwood Mac, a bit of James Taylor.”

 

Yuri scoffed. “I’m gonna definitely have you over then. We have to show you some more hardcore music.”

 

“That’s fine by me,” Otabek chuckled.

 

Yuri gave him his address and a farewell, and set off to get ready for the day. He jumped in the shower, combing his fingers through his hair to detangle it. He was shocked by how long it was getting, it brushed just past his shoulders by then. The sides of his head were shaved into a mohawk and outgrowing just a bit, so he figured he’d touch it up soon. His outfit that day consisted of his favorite blue jeans with the holes in the knees, a gray T-shirt with the sleeves torn off, and his beloved black leather jacket with a white anarchy A spray painted on the back. He always felt good when he was dressed how he wanted, despite how his grandfather disapproved. He also kind of wanted to impress Otabek. 

 

Since learning Otabek was gay, he had let himself feel just a bit better about his own blurry sexuality. It’s not like he didn’t like girls, it’s just that he had always found himself leaning towards boys as well. But, being a Soviet punk who’s already ostracized in America, he really didn’t need more labels for people to plaster to him. It’s not like he had a crush on Otabek or anything, he just was fascinated by his openness.

 

Once Yuri was dressed and ready, he began sifting through his massive record collection, picking out his absolute favorites to show off. Music was the one outlet where he felt his self-expression was at its peak, and for someone like Otabek who wore his heart on his sleeve through poetry, he wanted to really exhibit his personality through what he played for him.

 

Within the hour, Otabek had arrived. He looked nice--his hair was styled, his jeans flared out and his white T-shirt accentuated his build in a way that made Yuri feel weird for looking just a bit too long. It wasn’t like him to think a fashion sense like Otabek’s was attractive, but he somehow made it work. Yuri was almost thankful that Otabek didn’t have the same style as him--it’d make that boy  _ weak _ .

 

“Are you ready to have your soul blessed by the best music of our generation?” Yuri began with, giving Otabek a smirk along with it.

 

“We’re listening to David Bowie?” he replied, feeding into the dramaticism.

 

“Okay, Bowie’s a fucking God, don’t get me wrong,” Yuri debated. “But you haven’t heard the Sex Pistols yet.”

 

“Look, I’m not saying Ziggy Stardust and Hunky Dory are completely unbeatable in the music industry, but that’s exactly what I’m saying,” Otabek teased. “You can fight me on that one.”

 

And so Yuri did.

 

He was definitely a music snob when it came to his punk. He was completely convinced that his music taste was the greatest, and anyone who disagreed just didn’t understand true sound. So, he argued back that Never Mind the Bollocks could outdo anything by Bowie in a heartbeat, and got into a legitimate heated discussion about it with this guy who was still practically a stranger.

 

“It was completely experimental and succeeded  _ so well _ , Yuri,” Otabek insisted, starting to talk with his hands through the debate. “Name one other artist who has done that in the way Bowie has.”

 

“Uh,  _ The Clash _ ?”

 

“Okay, okay, how about this:” he proposed. “You show me Never Mind the Bollocks and London Calling, and I get to play Ziggy Stardust and Rumours by Fleetwood Mac. We keep open minds, and pay attention to the originality and creativity behind them rather than the genre. Got it?”

 

“Fine,” Yuri huffed, crossing his arms like the drama queen he was. He shot Otabek a skeptical glare, peering down at him as an intimidation tactic. He had a good few inches on Otabek, Yuri standing at 5’11 ever since his growth spurt right before his 17th birthday, so he was pretty good at using height to his advantage. Well, except for the fact that he was so lanky and thin. That was the main reason he wound up losing the fights he got himself into. He’d try to start shit with people twice his weight and get knocked onto his ass.

 

Either way, Otabek wasn’t backing down, so Yuri led him to his bedroom where the record player was stationed. He, of course, got first pick, so he had his favorite The Clash album ready, so worn down that it would skip every minute or so. What began as just a few songs to determine which albums were better and more influential turned into several hours of them talking about music, sharing their favorite records, and swapping recommendations. They each wrote down a few radio stations to tune in to as well. Yuri had even let some Fleetwood Mac grow on him--it wasn’t  _ that _ bad, after all. Otabek too had developed a real liking for some of the songs played for him. It wasn’t until Yuri’s grandfather came home that they realized exactly how much time had passed.

 

“Yurochka,” Nikolai called out as he came in the door. “Who’s here?”

 

“Shit, uh,” he mumbled as he stood up and made his way to the living room. “It’s my friend Otabek, dedushka.”

 

His grandfather definitely looked taken by surprise. “Friend? And I haven’t met him?”

 

“You can now,” Yuri shrugged, turning his head back and calling for Otabek to come out. The instant Nikolai saw him, his attitude shifted. He was most likely expecting someone less cleaned up as Otabek was, probably someone that Yuri would have met at one of his shows, automatically becoming just another person for his grandpa to disapprove of. But Otabek, with his shaven face and slicked hair and more in-style clothing, was someone that was to be respected, even by the most bitter of old grandfathers.

 

“It’s nice to meet you, son,” Nikolai nodded, holding out his hand.

 

“You too, sir,” Otabek returned, accepting the handshake. “I’m sorry that I can’t stay long to talk with you, my mother is expecting me home for dinner.”

 

“Go, go, don’t let me keep you from her,” he insisted. “I’m about to fix dinner for Yuri and I as well.”

 

Otabek gave a subtle smile and a head nod to Nikolai before turning to Yuri. “I had fun today, thank you.”

 

“I had fun too,” Yuri grinned. “Will you be back at the coffeehouse tonight?”

 

“Do you want me to be?”

 

“Sure.”

  
“Then I’ll see what I can do.” And with a farewell, Otabek was headed out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can u tell I'm obsessed with the idea of yuri being a shitty little music snob bc I AM
> 
> anYWAY, this update was way short for it taking me this long, I'm currently finishing up my other otayuri fic and its sucking all my time away from this one. BUT don't worry, ill try to keep at least one update a week so bear with me, and PLEASE leave comments bc i love them so much and i wanna hear feedback !!


	3. Sheena Is A Punk Rocker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well the kids are all hopped up and ready to go  
> They're ready to go now they got their surfboards  
> And they're going to the discotheque Au Go Go  
> But she just couldn't stay she had to break away

“You can’t keep throwing me out like this, fucking  _ fascists _ !” Yuri spat before promptly getting decked in the face. “This is America, land of the fucking free!”

 

“We don’t need dirty commies ruining our venue’s reputation,” the older man sneered, shoving him back once more. “How many times do we have to fucking say it?”

 

Yuri was overflowing with rage, kicking at the instigator--some asshole who goes by JJ--despite his arms being held behind his back by one of his buddies. “Every time you throw me out, I only wanna come back and fuck with you even  _ more _ .”

 

“Then keep coming,” JJ grinned, waving for his friend to let Yuri go. “I get a kick out of seeing you lose all your fights.”

 

In a split second, Yuri had jumped on JJ’s back, viciously punching the side of his head until getting thrown onto his back on the alley’s concrete ground. He felt his head hit the floor with a painful smack, followed by more wretched cackling from the men harassing him. 

 

“Just fuck off, kid, we’re headed back inside.”

 

Yuri bitterly rolled over, wincing as he did. Blood trickled down from his mouth, but that refused to stop him from lighting up a cigarette and picking himself back up. He was still boiling over with furiosity, so being a dumbass, he took his anger out on the wall of the building beside him, resulting in his knuckles being scraped down nearly to the bone. It was then when he let himself just give up. His whole body hurt, and he still had an hour until Otabek would be at the cafe. He had called later that night to confirm 1am, and it was only just before midnight.

 

Yuri headed to the cafe anyway.

 

People always say New York is the city that never sleeps, but had they ever been to Chicago? Even a run down, 24 hour coffee shop had at least a couple bodies inside into the late night and early morning hours. Yuri always found some sort of comfort in this, like even as someone so ostracized, he never had to truly be alone.

 

But that's sappy shit. He was too punk to admit it.

 

The usual barista was there, and he had began pouring Yuri’s coffee the moment he saw him come in. “You’re not looking too hot tonight, maybe you should stay in once in awhile,” he commented after seeing the blood.

 

“It’s the summer, I can go out whenever I please.”

 

“So be it. But I might have to hire you here just to mop up your own bloody lips every now and then,” he shrugged, handing him an extra napkin with his coffee.

 

“Thanks,” Yuri nodded, ignoring the dry joke and heading over to his usual booth. 

 

There weren’t any poets that night. Usually they came around on weekends, and it was a Monday night, so Yuri got to enjoy the silence without some idiot droning on about heartbreak in the background. The only poetry he cared to hear at the moment was Otabek’s, and he still had some time to kill before his arrival. The remaining hour-ish sipping his drink and doodling, making scenes out of the gross, drying blood on the napkin. He knew it was kind of disgusting, but it’s not like he had the energy to come up with anything better to do until his friend got there. When he finally did, it felt like the whole atmosphere changed.

 

Otabek walked in, notebook in hand, and scanned briefly for Yuri. It’s not like he was difficult to find in a room with less than five people. He took the seat across from him, just like the night before.

 

“I have a new poem,” he began with.

 

“I want to hear it.”

 

“I don’t want to read it up at the front though. It’s long and I haven’t edited it.”

 

“You can read it here,” Yuri suggested. “Or we can find somewhere else to go.”

 

Otabek glanced around at the place. It was a dim room, filled in with about ten two-person tables and booths. The wooden walls were decorated in mismatched posters, framed photographs, signed papers. Some of the lights flickered, and in a way, it was almost eerie, but really, it felt more like home. Like it was designed for people who didn’t feel like they had one.

 

“My apartment is within walking distance,” Otabek offered after a moment of consideration.

 

“You have an apartment? How old are you?”

 

“Nineteen. Twenty in October.”

 

“Huh. I didn’t know that,” he shrugged. “Your place works.”

 

There was something so obscure about the way Otabek interacted with Yuri. It was always so direct, yet still vague. Yuri supposed it was just shyness.

 

The two stood and began the walk to Otabek’s home. It was about ten minutes south of the coffee shop, a big brick complex. It was older, the walk up the stairs felt like it could crumble beneath them at any moment. His room was on the third floor, and inside was small, much smaller than Yuri and his grandfather’s apartment. The kitchen connected to the living room so closely that they were hardly separate rooms, and the hallway that contained the bathroom, a bedroom, and a closet was more of a nook than a real hallway. It was still pleasantly home-like though. Yuri was comfortable at once.

 

“This is nice,” he commented.

 

“You don’t have to lie,” Otabek insisted, kicking his shoes off at the door. “It’s tiny.”

 

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t nice,” Yuri responded, taking in the details. Framed photos and posters hung crookedly over peeling wallpaper, the massive shag rug beneath the coffee table and couch, the scent of that night’s dinner and blown out candles lingering in the air. “I want to hear that poem now.”

 

Otabek nodded, flipping through his notebook as the two made their way to the couch. “Here, have a seat. It’s called Haunted.”

 

Yuri pulled his legs up to his chest, resting his cheek on his knees in preparation to listen.

 

“Everyone thinks that the town is haunted, but it is really just me.

I run through the streets at night with a pack of wild dogs, 

not wild really, they have a home during the day.

This is to say that I am a runaway,

In the dark of the night we all slip away.

The roads welcome our paws, feet, paws, we howl 

at the moon with the local wolves.

Our families never notice the empty beds.

All in sync like a synth, not that my friends know what that is.

Sometimes, on special nights, all the animals join, feral and tame.

The teenage parties catch our eyes in the headlights, never mention

it during the day.

We are nothing but lore, the ghosts of the town,

Long forgotten, always remembered. Forgotten as parts of 

the town part of the town parts of the night.

Men never come out at night any more,

There were one too many rumours of attacks.

The ghosts got him, they whisper,

This is to say, Girls need not fear.

We run on watch our paws, feet, paws, we howl 

at the moon with the local wolves.

I always felt more comfortable with the dogs at the party.

We are home during the day,

That is to say, our families homes,

Everyone thinks that the town is haunted,

But it’s really just me.”

This poem resonated with Yuri in a much different way than the last. It felt biographical, an homage to the routine that he found himself cycling through. Out all night like a nocturnal creature, crawling back to his grandfather’s home by day. The moon was his guiding light, like that of a wolf.

 

“You inspired this,” Otabek admitted after several moments of reflective silence.

 

“I can tell,” was all Yuri managed to respond. “How do you  _ do _ that?”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Write like a fucking God.”

 

Otabek chuckled, shaking his head. “I just write how I perceive.”

 

“Never stop doing that then. Never let whatever is in you that creates this slip away.”

  
He looked up at Yuri, eyes full of this sort of admiration. “I won’t. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this update took so long ashkdjgasg im sorry my life keeps getting in the way of my fics its anNOYING
> 
> bUt nonetheless, thank u for reading and thank u for commenting!! it means so much and also don't forget to give some love to my amazing poet friend atwood (@nearforests on twitter) for providing the actual amazing poetry that is Otabek's!!

**Author's Note:**

> i fuckin love 70s aus. so heres this
> 
> the poetry is all by my dear friend atwood, @nearforests on twitter, so follow them!! also feel free to follow me on either tumblr or twitter, both are @dietpiss ! thank u so much for reading this and please fuel my ego by leaving comments!


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